The Unfinished Mission by Lindariel

Chapter 1

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A single flute carried the evening prayer to Ulmo across the cavern, signaling the end of the daywatch. Well-drilled movement rippled through the Dark Guard to the collective sigh of warriors relieved by another day of safety for the Hidden City. Elemmakil turned to Laurefindelë with a smile as the night guard moved into place. "It is weeks before your rotation brings you here. Will you be staying the night? Or are you on a secret inspection for the King?"

Laurefindelë laughed and said "no inspection. I only wanted to get out of the city." He paused, then admitted with an eyeroll, "Itarillë has been encouraging the court ladies again. I think she is sponsoring some kind of game to see who can flirt with me the most. I would love to stay out here among the crags and breathe unperfumed air for a night." He settled himself more deeply in the leather armchair and breathed deeply.

"Does that extend to the perfume of wine also?" Elemmakil inquired archly. "I have a good bottle or two laid by, but if it offends you we can drink ale."

"I will make an exception for the perfume of wine and good leather chairs in the commander's quarters," replied Laurefindelë, his eyes on the nearby desk full of dispatches. "But listen, Elemmakil! I hear footsteps."

Sartarë Duiliniel entered the room, her shadow-grey uniform with its embroidered portcullis insignia indistinct even in the light of Elemmakil's worklamp. "My lord," she said urgently, "there are voices in the entry." Elemmakil darted past her out of the room as Laurefindelë shot to his feet, snatching up his sword and following right behind. They stood on the walkway outside the captain's quarters, looking down over the parapet, past three levels of barracks carved into the sheer sides of the cavern, and toward the west where the outer world lay. Laurefindelë buckled on his swordbelt.

"Two of them, whatever they are," murmured Elemmakil, listening intently. He raised his voice a bit, summoning Sartarë. "Full alert!" he instructed her. As swift and quiet as fire races across a thatched roof, the word passed along the guard. Bowstrings thrummed as they tautened, arrows rustled as they slid out of quivers, peace-bonds whispered as sheaths were untied, and footsteps lighter than the kiss of snow descended the great carven staircases. The Keeper of the Lamp shrouded the light above the Gate of Wood.

Inside the space of six breaths, the entire guard stood poised before the darkened Gate of Wood -- command and infantry drawn up in a semicircle on the stony ground, archers arrayed on each walkway of the heights -- to eliminate whatever spies of the Enemy had breached the secret of the Hidden City. In charged stillness and silence the host listened as the echoes moved closer and rang more clearly. It sounded as if the spies were speaking in light whispers, and the words seemed Elvish: one voice speaking Quenya, the other Doriathrin. The footsteps too were so light as to sound Elvish. Sartarë handed Elemmakil a shuttered lamp, then stood behind him with a fist raised, ready to signal the archers on his order; but Elemmakil gave no order.

Laurefindelë had bolted down the stairs to the cavern floor with Elemmakil, by force of habit from his own countless rotations as commander of the Dark Guard. They stood together gazing into the near-complete darkness as two figures moved closer. One wore all white with a covered face; the other seemed clad all in black, with dark hair and eyes relieved only by a very pale face. As they watched, Laurefindelë suddenly let loose a hoarse cry of disbelief the like of which Elemmakil had not heard since the Crossing. Elemmakil turned to Laurefindelë in astonishment that he would break discipline in that way, only to watch as Laurefindelë took off running. He charged at the figures empty-handed as his sword bounced in its sheath. Elemmakil shrugged and unshuttered the Feänorean lamp in his hand, aiming the bullseye at Laurefindelë's back. If these are spies, he thought, the cold white light might dazzle them long enough for Laurefindelë to get inside their guard.

The figure in white stopped and spread two empty gloved hands, palms out, against the light. It wore stained white riding garments and cloak, but with a woman's veil. The other figure wore plain, close-fitting dark riding garments and also raised empty hands although a long black scabbard hung at his side. The entire guard trembled like a harpstring too tightly wound as they watched Laurefindelë, wondering what he was about to do.

Laurefindelë reached the two figures and flung himself to his knees in front of the white one. The figure bent and touched his shoulder with one hand, brushing back the veil from her head with her other hand. Elemmakil gasped as he recognized the face of Írissë Ar-Feiniel, sister of the king, long thought dead. Laurefindelë stood and grasped Írissë by both arms, shaking her a bit in wonder as she grasped his arms back. As they both began laughing and speaking at the same time, the Elf beside them lowered his hands slowly and did not seem to know what to do with them, although he kept them well away from the scabbard. Elemmakil marked how young, and how like the king, he looked.

The echoes from a flood of Quenya died down as Laurefindelë moved between the two figures. He offered Írissë his right arm. He held out his left to the unknown Elf, and arm in arm he escorted them across the cavern floor toward the still-vigilant troops. "Stand down," Elemmakil told Sartarë in a low voice, and she passed along the command as the group moved nearer. The lamp over the Gate of Wood shone out palely again.

"My lady, I am overjoyed to welcome you home again," began Elemmakil, shading the lamp to soften its glare. The young Elf stared first at the lamp and then at the glint of the mail hauberks peeking out from the guard's matching livery as they sheathed their swords; Írissë's only reaction was a tired, patrician smile. "May we invite you to stay the night here where you can eat and bathe before going on to the citadel in the morning? You must have come on a hard road, and with but one companion."

Írissë gave Laurefindelë the tiniest of nudges, and he dropped first her arm and then the young Elf's. He fell back a pace as Írissë took a step sideways, closer to her companion who eyed the Gondolindrim expectantly. "Thank you, Lord Elemmakil. I am glad to have returned to my beloved Lothengriol. My companion is my son, Lómion Maeglin, and we are indeed tired and hungry," Írissë replied as coolly as if she were making small talk at a state dinner.

The entire guard -- those on the ground and those above who were openly hanging over the parapets in order to witness this remarkable meeting -- remained impassive, but Elemmakil blinked at the enormity of Írissë being not just alive but married and with a son sporting a most unusual name. Why did Írissë's son have a Quenya ataressë and a Sindarin amilessë? There was sure to be a curious story behind that. He stole a look at Laurefindelë but learned nothing; Laurefindelë was gazing at Írissë's back with such an unguarded expression of relief and wonder that he seemed incapable of speech.

"Laurefindelë, would you kindly escort Lady Írissë and her son to my study?" Elemmakil suggested. "I will give orders about their quarters and meet you there shortly. You know where the wine is."

* * * * *

Hours later, after the lady and her son had been wined, bathed, dressed in clean clothing, dined, and tucked into the royal suite for the night, Elemmakil and Laurefindelë met again, this time on the inner side of the Gate of Wood. Again a flute melody wound through the air, this time signaling the midnight prayer to Varda. Laurefindelë looked up past the narrow, sheer cliffs of the Orfalch Echor to the snippet of dark sky above where the stars blazed, his lips moving silently. Elemmakil waited for him to finish, sipping his wine and relishing the moment of serenity.

Laurefindelë finished the prayer and looked at his friend. "She is alive! I can scarcely believe it yet."

"And every bit as headstrong as she ever was," agreed Elemmakil. "Refusing to say a word about how she survived, where she has been, who Lómion's father is, and why she came back!"

"I think she must want to tell her story first to Turukáno. He is the king and her brother, and he might begrudge us knowing the tale before him," Laurefindelë suggested, with a grimace. "But I have felt so responsible for her death. I thought she would at least tell me what happened to her at Nan Dungortheb, what happened after we were separated." He paused, then said softly "how I shall enjoy completing this mission at last!  I hope Ecthelion and Egalmoth are in the city; they deserve to hear the full story too."

"Perhaps you will all find out tomorrow," Elemmakil sympathized. "And the rest of us not long after, of that I am sure. There is only one thing I need to know tonight."

"What could that be?" Laurefindelë asked, reaching for the second beaker in Elemmakil's hand.

"Laure, how did you know it was her from so far away?" Elemmakil demanded. "She was veiled and cloaked! It could have been anybody or, worse, she might have come back from the Enemy." He tipped the wineskin, filling Laurefindelë's beaker.

"First I recognized her gait, but I waited to be sure. It might have been some trick of the Enemy, and she has been presumed dead for so long." Laurefindelë held the beaker of wine to his nose and inhaled deeply. "But the breeze was behind them, and I could smell her scent on both of them. If the Enemy had sent her, I would have smelled Him. She also smells like another Elf, one I do not know. But she is herself, make no mistake."

Elemmakil threw back his head and laughed. "So much for your unperfumed night!"

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Chapter End Notes

Lothengriol (Gnomish) -- White Flower of the Vale, one of the early "seven names" of Gondolin; perhaps Írissë is the one who gave the Hidden City that name, or maybe someone gave it that name because of her

ataressë (Q) -- father-name, the name an Elvish father gives his child at birth; usually dynastic

amilessë (Q) -- mother-name, the name an Elvish mother gives her child, not necessarily right away; often prophetic

I imagine Gondolin as the most formal and hierarchical of all the Elven cities in Beleriand. As nobles of Gondolin, I also imagine Elemmakil, Laurefindelë, and Írissë speaking Quenya among themselves, hence the titles and Quenya names.